


James and Georgia: Just a Toy

by wheel_pen



Series: Just a Toy [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Creative Companions, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8145055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: James (Jeremy Renner) is an aspiring actor in LA who has met a very odd man named Phil, who claims he can deliver a trans-dimensional companion who will help James in his career. Wacky as that sounds, James is ready to give it a chance and at least meet Georgia (Scarlett Johansson). Just the beginning. Inspired by Avengers and Jeremy Renner’s early career.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that's just how I do things.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different things.

 

_2002_

James waited nervously at the bar, resisting the urge to indulge in any drink stronger than cranberry juice. It was stupid to be nervous, he was only about to meet—the woman he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with, whose influence would propel him to new heights of success in his profession, fame and fortune and critical acclaim.

C----t, he probably _should_ be nervous. _Really_ nervous.

What insane plan had he set himself up for? Some crazy cult, talking about science and energy and other dimensions like the funny sibling Scientology kept locked in the attic—this was not the kind of person he was, yoking himself to a total stranger for money and success. They had names for that kind of person, and they weren’t nice names. He really hadn’t thought he’d sunk to that level in his desperation.

And whenever he thought like that, eventually the existential seesaw teetered back the other way, and he thought—are you really taking this so seriously? Please. If they were a bunch of wackos he could get out of it easily enough. Don’t sign anything, don’t borrow money from them, don’t take any drugs. If he and the lady didn’t get along, they would just break up, move on. Sorry, we gave it a shot, guess I wasn’t your calculated nexus of creative fluctuations after all, or whatever the h—l Phil had called him.

He wouldn’t be any worse off—the woman was supposed to come with her own money for upkeep, not that he had any to steal. Well, that sounded kind of horrible; but that was how Phil had put it. It was all very nineteenth-century arranged-mistress-for-social-climbing, which maybe should’ve skeeved James out more, except it wasn’t _his_ idea, and anyone who thought _he_ was going to carry them to the heights of stardom really had a h—l of a lot more imagination than _he_ did.

So he would just see.

It was a crazy idea, and he kind of like crazy ideas, and he didn’t have much of a career to lose, anyway.

“You want that juice freshened up?” Benny deadpanned.

“Maybe some seltzer,” James decided, too tense to appreciate the portly fellow’s amusement. “Too much juice is a bad idea.” Snorting, Benny got him a seltzer.

“So who are you waiting for again?” the bartender inquired. “A date, or a director? Not sure I’ve ever seen you so anxious.”

“Have you ever seen me so sober?” James quipped, sipping the seltzer. “A date,” he added, in answer to the question. “I said to meet here ‘cause I wanted to impress her.” From someone else that might have been snark, but Benny knew James could only afford a c—phole of an apartment, so it was actually a sincere compliment. He spent a lot of time at Benny’s bar, not usually drinking that much because he couldn’t afford it and didn’t want to become a character from _Cheers_ ; but he liked the atmosphere and he loved the karaoke machine.

Phil said she would have her own apartment, and James could live there if he wanted. They probably wouldn’t want to spend much time apart, even commuting time—again, Phil’s words. James would wait and see—he didn’t need to be anyone’s houseboy. And after all, Phil had claimed that soon he’d be able to afford a nicer place all on his own.

The door to the bar opened and a woman walked in. For a second James felt a stab of disappointment, followed by a refreshing sweep of relief as he realized she was with the man entering behind her, who was not Phil. Then he felt a touch guilty, because it wasn’t like she was _ugly_ or anything. He didn’t need a supermodel, he didn’t _want_ a supermodel, some high maintenance woman who barely moved for fear of messing up her hair and drew every guy in the room to her side.

Phil said the companions were taught to be meticulous about their appearance, though. C----t, _taught_ , like there was an academy for them somewhere in the Venusian dimension or wherever. But that would be useful, if she already knew how to style herself for a film premiere or industry party—wait, was that an awful thing to think, or a pragmatic one? Or pragmatic but not necessarily compatible with a healthy, natural romantic relationship?

They needed to get here already. Before James just chickened out and left.

“You meet her on the Internet?” Benny wanted to know.

“Huh? Oh, uh, more like through a friend,” James told him. “It’s like a blind date.”

“At eleven AM on a Tuesday?” Benny asked curiously. “What are you guys gonna do, go grocery shopping together?”

James froze. “I don’t know,” he said with sudden panic. Benny raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think about what we were going to do _after_ —F—k.”

“You are really wound up,” Benny observed, as James buried his face in his hands helplessly. “Is she like a friend’s little sister or something? Take her to the botanical gardens,” he suggested. “I’ll spot you bus fare.”

James gave him a look of gratitude. “That’s a good idea, man. I brought my car, but thanks for the offer.”

Benny whistled. “Spending gas money on a blind date? He must have really talked her up.”

“F----n’ Queen of Sheba,” James agreed dryly.

The door opened again and he turned reflexively, squinting around the sun that shone in at just the wrong angle. A familiar silhouette blocked the light and James’s heart skipped a beat—not to see Phil, but knowing that the next person behind him would be the one James was waiting for. Maybe underneath it all he was just a big sap, who really wanted to believe in magic and that he wouldn’t be lonely again.

He looked past Phil, not even acknowledging him, eyes fixed on the woman who entered, a dark shape against the sunlight at first. Petite. Deliciously curvy. Long red hair, lovely body-conscious dress, walking with poise in stylish high heels—

And then he saw her face, dim at first, resolving more as she stepped into the light. Heart shape, full lips, classic lines, tasteful make-up—

F—k. He just kept staring.

“James. Sorry we’re late,” Phil said, finally wresting his attention away momentarily.

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” James stood immediately, trying to remember his manners.

“The traffic was—“ Phil could see he only cared about one thing. “This is Georgia.”

“Hello, how do you do,” James said quickly, reaching out a hand to her.

She almost reached back with the wrong one, then corrected herself and took his hand with a gentle squeeze, her own nervousness fluttering across her face. “Fine, thank you. It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice was deeper than expected, low and sultry, or maybe she just had a head cold.

Benny cleared his throat behind him. “Oh, these are for you,” James remembered belatedly, sweeping the bouquet of flowers off the bar and handing it to her.

She was not expecting this and her face lit with a smile. “Oh, thank you. They’re so beautiful.” It was not an expensive bouquet—her couldn’t afford that—but her delight seemed genuine.

He hated to stop staring at her. But there was something very wrong here. A bitter tang of disappointment and frustration was building in his mouth and he struggled not to show it.

“Please, sit down,” he invited her, indicating the barstool. “Benny, could you get her a—juice or something? Excuse me for a second.” James tried to give her a reassuring smile, but when he grabbed Phil’s arm and practically dragged him several yards away, it wasn’t hard to deduce that something was unsatisfactory.

“Are you kidding me?” James hissed at Phil. “Are you f-----g kidding me?”

Phil frowned and James realized this was not going to be a short conversation. “Sorry, is something wrong?”

“How old is she?” James demanded.

Phil shrugged a little. “Well, we age differently from humans, it’s difficult to convert—“

“How old is she _supposed_ to be?” James clarified, cutting through his sci-fi bulls—t.

Phil flipped a picture ID in front of him. “Eighteen. It’s her birthday today,” he smiled.

“ _S—t_ ,” James muttered emphatically, glancing back at her. She sipped a juice at the bar, her eyes meeting his momentarily with a weak smile. James nodded and tried to smile back, then turned away quickly. “I was thinking maybe twenty-one, twenty-two—“

“We were going to make her younger,” Phil revealed, obviously not seeing the problem, “but apparently there’s some kind of legal statute in California regarding sexual relations. We thought it was safer to meet that minimum.”

“Safer. C----t.” James burbled out a slightly deranged laugh. “Phil. I’m thirty.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed.

“She’s _too young_ ,” James laid out distinctly. “What am I going to _tell_ people? If they see me hooking up with a f-----g _kid_?”

Finally Phil frowned. “Our research showed that such age imbalances were considered acceptable, even desirable, among elite members of society.”

“Well I’m not a f-----g elite, Phil,” James tried to explain. He thought back, trying to figure out how it had all gone horribly wrong, and whether he was a fool to believe that it wouldn’t. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he _had_ believed in this insane scheme. At least a Russian mail-order bride would’ve listed her _age_ (and, if inaccurate, was likely to be _older_ , not younger). “That’s twelve years, Phil, that’s too much, especially with her being only—“ A fresh horror occurred to him. “She’s not still in school, is she?”

“No, we have obtained a graduation certificate from _high school_ ,” Phil reported, pronouncing the words as though they were foreign to him, which they apparently were. “She’s been tailored to fit your psychological profile—“

That was not the kind of creepy New Age thing James wanted to hear right now. “I was thinking she’d be _my_ age, maybe a _little_ younger, like twenty-seven,” he interrupted.

“Oh.” The problem finally seemed to be sinking in and they both turned to gaze at her. “I don’t think she could pass for twenty-seven,” Phil assessed.

“No s—t,” James agreed.

Phil pulled a device from his pocket, handheld and flat with a large screen. “What’s that?” James asked.

“My phone,” Phil replied absently. He appeared to be _scrolling_ through text on the screen, using only his finger.

“Are you calling someone?” James pressed, mystified and slightly put out.

“I’m checking your profile,” Phil assured him, nonsensical as that was.

“Man, if you’ve already got technology like that, I don’t know why you need to come _here_ ,” James muttered. He wasn’t that much of a techie himself, but he was sure he’d never seen a ‘phone’ like _that_ before.

“Ah,” Phil noted, looking at the text on his screen. “Youth was recommended for you, to elicit protective and guiding feelings.” He nodded in satisfaction and put the phone away, then gave James an expectant look.

James was still sputtering. “ _What?_ No, no, that’s not right,” he insisted. “And, okay, even if it’s a _tiny_ bit right”—there were his many younger sisters, for example—“there’s a _big_ difference between youth like twenty-five and youth like _eighteen_.”

Phil did not see it that way. “We could probably redo her paperwork,” he suggested. “Push her up to twenty, twenty-one. Maybe she could temporarily alter her appearance to look older—well, I’m sure you would know how to do that, right?”

James snorted. “G-d, City of Youth, the twenty-five-year-olds want to look eighteen, and the eighteen-year-olds, twenty-five.”

Phil took that as discouragement. “She’s studied teenage culture, anyway,” he added, “though I think you’ll find that she’s very mature both mentally and emotionally. Not _too_ mature, of course,” he said quickly. “She will grow into greater self-sufficiency with your help.”

James turned away from her before he was swayed by her angelic face and devilish figure. “Phil, cut the self-help c—p,” he demanded. “She’s too young, end of story. It’s not gonna f-----g work. I’m not some high and mighty duke importing a child bride to bear me many sons, okay?”

“She can’t have biological children,” Phil cautioned quickly.

And that had almost been a deal-breaker right there, when he’d first heard it, because James loved kids and kind of wanted to have some, someday, even though he was getting older without any prospects. But then he decided they could maybe adopt, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about a few suspect genes that maybe shouldn’t be passed on.

But that was not the point at the moment.

“Can you make her look older or not?” James asked flatly.

“Not substantially, no,” Phil admitted soberly.

James did not like saying the next words, but he was mad, actually _angry_ now, at himself more than anyone, for the foolish hope he’d placed in this nonsense scheme. “Then you have to take her back.”

“Take her back.”

“Yes, take her back,” James hissed impatiently. “She’s too young, it won’t work. Take her back.” A thought occurred to him. “You _can_ take her back, right?”

“Yeah, I can take her back,” Phil replied, though with some hesitation. “If that’s what you really want.”

“No, it’s not what I _want_ ,” James snapped. “But it’s not gonna work.”

Phil nodded slowly. “Okay. I see. Um, I apologize, we really messed this up.”

“Yeah,” James agreed bitterly. “I mean, no offense to _her_ —“

“Georgia,” Phil supplied helpfully.

“No offense to Georgia, it’s nothing to do with _her_ ,” James insisted, somewhat contradictorily, gaze drifting towards her. “I’m sure she’s a great… I mean, she’s not going to get in trouble or anything, is she?” he asked Phil suddenly.

“No, no, of course not,” Phil assured him. “It was our mistake. Well, there’s kind of a stigma,” he finally added.

“Stigma?” James repeated in concern. “What stigma?”

“Well, it’s difficult to travel here, it’s very competitive, and being sent back—“ He shrugged matter-of-factly. “But don’t worry about that. It was our mistake, we’ll fix it. You might see her around, though, I have an appointment tomorrow with a studio head. Of course she’s studied for you, but she’s very adaptable—“

“Wait a minute,” James interrupted, his disgust growing. “Are you saying you’d just try to pawn her off on some random guy? Some _old_ studio guy?” His mind went immediately to an image of a gluttonous, cigar-chomping lecher gazing greedily at Georgia on his casting couch. The picture horrified him.

“Well, he wouldn’t exactly be random,” Phil protested. “He would be another participant in the project. I think he _is_ about sixty-two, but he’s very fit, for a man his age.”

James’s opinion of Phil’s integrity nosedived. He might have been a looney but he’d always been a professional, straightforward, kind-hearted looney, at least in the time James had known him. But Georgia—and someone she didn’t know anything about—a sixty-two-year-old looking for his next trophy wife—that was just callous.

And brilliant.

“G-------t, Phil,” James cursed when he realized he’d been played. “Protective f-----g feelings—“

“I really didn’t know you’d be so upset about her age,” Phil insisted. “We would’ve made her older.” But now he knew he wouldn’t need to send her back or pass her along after all.

James could just see it now, his friends, his parents, his siblings, his agent, anyone he met in the industry—he’d be _that_ guy, the guy dating a kid, the guy grasping onto youth any way that he could, and obviously there was only one reason he was with her, because they sure as h—l weren’t _talking_ about any common interests—

Well, f—k what they thought. Anyone who knew him, who _got_ to know him, would know he wasn’t like that. Anyone who got to know him _and_ Georgia would see that there was more to their relationship than just the superficiality of beauty. James made extra cash on the weekends as a make-up artist, which was maybe weird but he had a talent for it, and he knew all too well that you could make a woman look like heaven on Earth but it didn’t mean she wasn’t a b---h as soon as she opened her mouth. If he and Georgia got along—if they could have conversations together, common interests and attitudes—he could deal with the rest. And f—k anyone who judged him without knowing anything about it.

“There’s a trial period, right?” he finally said to Phil.

“Of course,” the other man assured him. “There’s no set commitment deadline, just treat it as you would any relationship.”

Well, if he tried to forget about her age—which really wasn’t easy, because he almost felt like he should protect her from _himself_ —then he had gotten this date off to a really awful start, he realized, leaving her to sit alone at the bar with only Benny for occasional company. He would not be impressed with someone who did that to him.

“I was thinking the botanic gardens,” he confessed to Phil.

“Good idea,” Phil encouraged. “I’ll meet you two there. Do you need any money?”

“What? No,” James replied, slightly affronted.

“Your profile says you feel it’s your place as the male to provide,” Phil assessed, “but that you’re capable of reaching a more equitable arrangement if it’s pragmatic.” James blinked at him. “She can always pay, if you can’t,” he clarified. “She’ll have money.”

“The botanic gardens are free,” James pointed out icily, ignoring all the other monetary considerations, like gas, parking, lunch. Dinner.

“Here’s her ID,” Phil went on, handing him the card. “She has her other documents. Have a good time.” He smiled with a sort of slightly smug blandness.

James took the ID from him ungraciously and gave him a final look that suggested that all was _not_ forgiven here. Then he turned back to face Georgia and allowed himself to think, _She could be mine_. A smile stole across his face and she saw it when she glanced back over, startling her at first—no doubt she still expected to see him obviously displeased. Then she smiled back, tentatively, and he forgot all about Phil and hurried over to her, because when there was a beautiful girl like _that_ waiting for him, what the h—l was he doing on the other side of the room?

“Hi,” he started again. “I’m sorry. I just had to—“ It wasn’t really important to explain right now. “Would you like to see the botanic gardens?”

“Yes, I would,” Georgia agreed. She held his smile a moment later, then started to reach into her purse.

“No, I got it,” James countered, reaching into his pocket. She’d been sipping an orange juice, apparently.

“I put it on your tab,” Benny said dismissively, which probably meant it was on the house.

“Thanks, man,” James told him, leaving a couple bucks as a tip anyway.

“Thank you,” Georgia echoed politely, addressing them both. She stood and picked up her flowers, then glanced at Phil, who gave her a little nod.

“My car’s outside,” James said, gesturing towards the door. Well, duh, where else would it be, he chided himself.

“Do you come here a lot?” Georgia asked as they walked outside. “What sort of establishment is it?”

“Um, it’s a karaoke bar,” he replied, both wincing at the sudden sunlight. “Here.” He handed her the ID.

“A bar serves alcoholic beverages,” Georgia identified, tucking her ID away in her purse. “I’m not familiar with the term karaoke, though.” He glanced at her and she quickly added, “I’m sorry, I’ve been studying your culture extensively, but—“

“No, no, that’s okay,” James assured her, opening the passenger side door for her. He jogged around to the driver’s side. “Karaoke is just singing,” he told her when he got in. “This machine plays the music of a song, and usually the lyrics are shown on a screen, and someone sings along in front of everyone else.”

“I see,” Georgia noted with interest. “You like to sing, don’t you? You’re very creative musically.”

“Would you mind putting your seatbelt on?” he asked delicately. He had not considered the possibility that—aside from being preposterously young for him—she might not be able to blend in to society. Then again he and Phil rarely had normal conversations about everyday events, so he’d had no indication that determined _studying_ would be required to live in LA.

Georgia was perfectly willing to wear the seatbelt and understood its purpose; but in real life they were apparently more awkward than the textbooks made out. Wasn’t that always the case, though. “Sorry, it’s just—it seems uncomfortable, the way it cuts across me.”

“Yeah. I think you’ll get used to it, though,” James claimed, as he finally pulled onto the road. “Do you, uh, know how to drive?”

“I’ve studied the principles,” Georgia replied confidently, looking around avidly. “I intend to obtain a certification for operating a motor vehicle here, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, sure,” James encouraged. “Get your driver’s license. LA is the city of the car, everybody drives here.”

“It’s so beautiful,” she sighed. Considering they were passing through a somewhat rundown part of town, James glanced over at her a couple of times to see if she was serious.

“Really? What’s it like where _you’re_ from?”

“Oh, it’s very dull and grey and sterile,” Georgia dismissed, which sounded to James more like a (bad) decorating style than a hometown. “Do you sing at the karaoke bar often? May I accompany you sometime?”

“Yeah, sure,” James allowed, smiling a little at the thought of her watching him sing. All of his friends would freak out, though. “Do you sing? You could try—“ Her expression fell suddenly. “You don’t have to,” he reversed quickly, in case she got stage fright or something. “Just, you’re welcome to—“

“I don’t sing,” she explained, with more regret than James would’ve thought necessary. “I don’t do anything creative. I’m sorry, are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed? No, how could I be disappointed?” he insisted.

“Your profile didn’t say you required a creative companion,” she added. Her tone wasn’t irritated, or desperate, merely forthright, with a quiet sort of confidence. It was actually a little unnerving in someone who looked as young as she did, and yet at the same time—he definitely didn’t want irritated or desperate. “Actually, _your_ creativity will energize me, and in turn I can help you to be healthier and more energetic—“

“Um, sorry,” James interrupted uncomfortably. “I mean, I’ve heard that from Phil. But he didn’t really tell me what you were _like_ ,” he explained, trying to turn the conversation back to a less metaphysical topic. “What do you like to do? Like, as a hobby?”

“I read a lot,” Georgia replied. “I like to learn new things, especially about your culture. People are so creative and inquisitive,” she went on, warming up to the topic. “I like to watch movies and TV, and listen to music. I don’t understand the ability to conjure an emotional response solely through melody, but it’s quite powerful.”

James could agree with that, though he probably would’ve used shorter words. And not sounded like he’d never heard any music before in his life. “What’s your favorite kind of music?”

“I’ve been studying the evolution of rap and hip-hop,” Georgia responded, which led to him doing a double-take, “in particular artists such as Eminem, Lauryn Hill, and 50 Cent.” She glanced at him when he didn’t say anything, seeing the slight smirk on his face. “Would you prefer I study a different genre?”

“I think you should study whatever genre you like best,” James assured her. “But I have to admit, rap really isn’t my thing. I’m more of a classic rock guy.”

Georgia nodded seriously. “I will study that genre also,” she vowed. “Can you give me some examples of preferred artists?”

“Um, Journey, Queen, the Rolling Stones, Billy Joel—well, it’s a broad definition,” James qualified. “107.1 is the local classic rock station, I listen to them a lot when—Radio station?” he added at her look. “You know, you turn to—“ He mimicked turning the radio dials in his car.

Understanding dawned. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant a television station, or a physical place—“

James nodded slowly and tried to figure out how to phrase his next question. “So where are you supposed to be from?” he asked. “Like if my friends say, ‘Hey, where are you from?’ what’s your answer?” He half-expected that no one had thought of that.

“I’m from Elmdale, Ohio,” Georgia answered promptly. “It’s a small town just west of Columbus. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was young and I was raised by my grandmother.” The speech didn’t exactly sound rehearsed, but it didn’t quite have a normal cadence to it, either. “After I graduated from high school and my grandmother died, I came to LA to become an underwear model. So now I’m—“

“Wait, hold on,” James interrupted. “What? An underwear model?”

“Well, I’m not actually one yet,” Georgia clarified, uncertain of his negative reaction. “I have some money that my grandmother left me. But people often ask about one’s professional ambition—“

“You, um—“ James had already been pegged as old-fashioned in his profile and he wasn’t sure what all that was supposed to encompass. He thought of himself as open-minded, though—somehow open-minded, yet old-fashioned. “So you _aren’t_ actually an underwear model yet? Could you, I don’t know, have some other ambition?” Her quizzical expression made him feel judgmental. “Like maybe you want to go to college and study business, or something?”

“What’s wrong with being an underwear model?” Georgia asked, curious and confused.

“Nothing, there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, I _know_ underwear models,” he insisted, trying to get out of the hole he’d dug. “Just—why is that the story? _Do_ you actually want to be an underwear model?” Maybe he was approaching this the wrong way.

“Not really,” Georgia admitted. “I want to be a good companion for you.”

“You can’t actually say that,” James warned.

“I know. But it was thought that the underwear model story would make me seem appealing to your peers,” she explained.

This, James could work with. “Okay, see, there you go, that’s the problem,” he told her. “If you really had a deep love of underwear modeling, it would be okay. But if you’re just saying it to sound cool to people, well, it’s _not_ okay. It’s not a very lofty goal, you know?”

“But it would be acceptable if I really _liked_ it?” she repeated, confused. “How will the people I’m talking to know the difference?”

“Well— _I_ would know,” James tried to explain. “ _I_ would know you were just saying it to look cool—“

“To make _you_ seem—cool,” Georgia corrected, obviously uncertain how to use the word.

“Exactly,” James said, although he could see she didn’t quite get it yet. “You should think of something you really _would_ like to do, and tell people that. That’s what would _really_ be cool. Doing what you love to do. No matter what that is.”

That was what had driven _him_ , anyway—in LA it was only cool to be an actor if you made money at it, and right now his main source of income was still flipping houses with Kris. Though even calling that ‘income’ seemed a little grandiose. And actually, he liked doing that, too.

Georgia was dangerously quiet. “Do you see what I mean?” James asked delicately. “I mean, that’s just my opinion, I don’t mean to order you around or anything. You want to be an underwear model, we can go with that.” Great, nothing like integrity, right?

“I’m impressed by the amount of thought you’ve given this subject,” Georgia told him finally, with great seriousness.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize I had such a strong opinion about underwear models,” James quipped dryly, pulling into a parking spot at the botanic gardens. The gardens themselves were free but the parking, alas, was not, which he’d forgotten. “Can you lock your car door? Like this,” he requested of Georgia as they got out. “Hang on, let me feed the meter first.”

“Oh, a parking meter,” Georgia noted, with more enthusiasm than the parking meters had seen in some time. “May I try? I think I have some coinage here…” She reached into her purse.

“Change,” James corrected, trying not to feel bad about her paying. He needed to be pragmatic, as Phil said. And she _wanted_ to pay, it was apparently a learning experience for her. “You have change.”

“Oh, that’s odd,” Georgia decided. “Okay, it takes quarters, dimes, and nickels only. What _doesn’t_ it take?”

“Pennies. The brown ones.”

Deftly she pushed a quarter into the slot, watching the arrow turn to indicate the number of minutes. “The ability to purchase time is quite a leap, conceptually,” she judged. “Is fifteen minutes a lot?”

“Um, it depends on if you like botanic gardens or not,” James vacillated. “I was thinking more like an hour.”

“Alright.” She put in three more quarters. “How fascinating. Now, one thing I was confused about when studying parking meters—if we decide to vacate this space after only, say, half an hour, how do we get back the excess money?”

“Uh, you don’t,” James admitted. “You kind of have to guess at how much you’re going to need, and risk losing some if you overestimate. But it’s much better to overestimate, actually, if you can afford it, because if you run out of time you risk getting a parking ticket, which is a lot more expensive.”

“You’re very skilled at explaining things,” Georgia complimented, and James wasn’t sure where to go with that.

Georgia, it turned out, knew far more about the botanic gardens than James did, including their history in both the general and the specific, and tidbits about many of the plants featured, such as the poison they contained. In the hands of someone else this knowledge might have been boring, but Georgia conveyed it with a wonder that made everything seem fresh and new.

“You really like plants, huh,” James surmised. “Maybe you could garden as a hobby. Have you ever tried that?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Georgia hedged. “Gardening is messy, and I’m not really fond of getting messy.”

This struck an off note with James. He didn’t want a prissy princess who squealed at spiders and refused to speak to him if he was sweaty from working on a house. “Oh. Really? Hmm,” he remarked, trying not to be tactless.

“Oh look, a _Kolinus methelaneum_ ,” she pointed out, crouching down to scoop a small, shiny beetle off the path. “They’re often found in leaf litter. The scales on its back are angled to reflect sunlight and distort its shape to predators.” She set it back down where she’d found it and watched it scuttle away.

Okay, so, no worries about squealing at insects, then. Maybe it was still okay. It was more a state of mind than an activity, right?

“Is there a profession that involves reading a lot of books?” she wanted to know. She’d obviously been giving his earlier words a lot of thought.

“Um, hmm, maybe a librarian, or a book editor,” James tried.

“I like reading a lot,” she reminded him. “Is there a job where I could watch a lot of TV?”

“Well, a _critic_ watches TV shows, or movies or plays, or reads books, and then writes a review of them,” James replied dubiously. “Summary of the plot, good parts, bad parts. You don’t—er, do you think you’d like to be a critic?” He tried to keep his own bias out of the question and was not entirely successful.

“Not if it requires original writing,” Georgia decided. “I have no creative talent.”

“Well, best avoid it, then,” James advised safely. “Actors tend not to like critics, anyway.”

“Why not?” she wanted to know.

“Um… Because a lot of people who want to be actors aren’t very good,” he confessed. “And people don’t like to hear that they aren’t very good at something they love doing.”

Georgia nodded sagely. A couple passed them holding hands and she turned to look after them while James scrambled to think up some other potential profession for her. “Can we try physical contact?” she asked suddenly.

The phrasing took him aback slightly, although in principle he had no objection. “Uh, sure. What do you—“ Awkwardly they clasped hands, turning them over until they got it right. James had never _thought_ about how to hold hands before and doing so made him self-conscious. Georgia’s pleased smile melted away his embarrassment, though—her hand was warm and soft and smooth, and holding it made her seem more _real_ to him, more connected somehow. He completely forgot whatever he’d been planning to say and was content to just walk along the path with her, looking at the flowers and enjoying the sunshine.

“Is a professional ambition necessary?” Georgia asked after a few minutes. The inadequacy of her original plan seemed to trouble her. “My research shows that there are many people in Los Angeles with inherited money who don’t appear to have professional ambition, and they are quite popular.”

It took him a minute to figure out what she meant. “Oh, like the socialites? Paris Hilton and stuff?” The disdain in his tone was obvious. “You don’t want to be like that. Nobody likes people who just party all day and don’t do anything.”

Georgia looked confused, perhaps understandably. “But they’re commonly covered by the media, and invited to many social events,” she pointed out. “And, your profile says you’re an outgoing person who enjoys hosting social events.”

James had never realized there were so many nuances in his perception of his social circle. “Well, _my_ parties are mostly for my friends,” he pointed out. “Socialites go to a lot of parties with celebrities so they can get attention, and when they’re famous enough, people and companies invite them to parties to get more attention from the press themselves. It’s all a big promotional scheme to sell movies or vodka or sunglasses, and a lot of times celebrities even get paid to show up and advertise the product.” Georgia stared at him in rapt attention.

“I mean, nothing wrong with advertising, I’ve been in lots of commercials,” he added quickly. “But it’s just kind of… I don’t know,” he laughed, feeling way too serious and cynical. “Maybe I’m just jealous that no one will pay _me_ for showing up at a party.”

“You have a strong sense of artistic integrity,” Georgia judged, and James squirmed uncomfortably.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’d like to make money as much as the next guy, really,” he claimed. “If someone offered me a lot of money to do a dumb action movie I’d probably take it.”

“But you wouldn’t do _anything_ just to make money, or be famous,” Georgia decided. “You don’t like people whom you see as not contributing to society.”

This was flattering, especially the confidence with which she said it, but James felt it was too lofty to describe him. He was just a working guy, who wanted to act but did other things to pay the bills—he was fortunate in that he _liked_ doing those other things, but the ‘paying the bills’ part would probably be easier if he hustled more and took on something like being a waiter. It was a balance between what he _wanted_ to do and what he _needed_ to do; maybe if he pursued one direction or the other with more vigor, he’d actually get somewhere.

“Do actors really contribute much to society?” he asked facetiously, with a shrug.

“Yes,” Georgia replied firmly. “I have enjoyed watching actors in many movies and TV shows, and I’ve learned more about society from a few fictional movies than I have from many scholarly books. And,” she added, “Phil says you’re very talented as an actor, with a strong work ethic. I hope to provide you with further energy and focus, so you can contribute to society more fully.”

“Well… thanks,” James answered after a moment, unsure what else to say to that. Georgia nodded with satisfaction.

“I like holding hands,” she went on. “For me to help you we have to form a bond, and the easiest way to do that is sharing an intimate physical and emotional experience.”

James felt he was beginning to get used to how she talked. “Does holding hands count as that?” he asked dubiously.

“No,” she clarified. “But it’s a step towards increased physical comfort with each other, a necessary prerequisite to intimacy.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that. And thinking about _intimacy_ with her was really not what he should be doing right now, not if he wanted to stay in control of the situation. “Um, so, your grandmother,” he said randomly, snatching the least sexy image he could think of out of the air. “I mean, you were raised by your grandmother. That’s the story. Were you really? Raised by your grandmother?”

“Oh. No, I was raised in the usual manner for my kind,” Georgia told him, which made images of cockroaches disguised as humans flash into his mind, unsettlingly. “You were raised in a non-traditional manner, weren’t you?” she asked, deftly changing the subject. “Do you feel this has had a major impact on your personal development?”

“Is that what my profile says?” James guessed, not sure he liked having this psychoanalysis of him floating around.

“Yes,” Georgia agreed readily. “I was curious if you were aware of the connection.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s occurred to me before.” He didn’t mean to be sarcastic in a rude way; actually he didn’t think he _had_ been, but he could tell from her body language that she was drawing back a bit in response. “Sorry,” he told her quickly, trying to coax her back with a smile. “It’s just a little weird to meet someone who knows so much about me, when I don’t know much about _them_.”

“I can see how that would be unbalanced,” Georgia agreed. “Though, I feel there are many things I have yet to discover about you,” she added. “For example, Phil was unable to determine your favorite foods, and if you would prefer I know how to prepare them or not.”

“Oh, do you cook?” James asked, seizing the opportunity to ask her another question.

“Not as yet,” Georgia admitted, “but food preparation seems simple in principle. Should I learn?”

James was not going to tell her she should learn to cook for him. “Well, _I_ like to cook,” he said. “It might be fun to cook together. And, knowing the basics at least would probably be really useful for you, you know, so you can make food for yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t require much food,” Georgia assured him off-hand.

“You don’t?” James asked dubiously. His eyes strayed inadvertently to her curves, which surely took _some_ nutrients to sustain.

“No, my metabolism is very efficient, so I can subsist on very little food,” she elaborated, now noticing his lack of indifference to this idea. “This was thought to be an asset, as less money would be spent on my food—Is something wrong?” she finally asked, troubled.

“Well, it’s just—“ James had not realized he had all these standards for women before. Well, of course he had _standards_ , he’d just never had them laid out and challenged in a single conversation before like this. “Hey, there’s Phil,” he interrupted himself, eager for the distraction.

The dark-suited man was waiting for them beside the path, with a blanket draped over his arm. He stood out slightly among all the casually-dressed garden visitors, though oddly not as much as James would have thought. Phil had a rather curious ability to blend in.

“Hello. How’s it going?” he asked, in a way that was anything but casual. James felt their clasped hands had been given a thorough examination from behind the sunglasses.

“I shouldn’t be an underwear model,” Georgia reported immediately. “And, something may be wrong with my metabolism.” She said these things matter-of-factly, presenting them to Phil as issues to be dealt with.

“Oh?” he asked blandly, turning to James.

“No, there’s nothing _wrong_ with your metabolism,” James insisted to Georgia. He found himself in the awkward position of wanting to reassure her about something he also wanted to complain to Phil about. “It’s just—it’s like the underwear model thing—“

“Is it considered—not cool—to eat little?” Georgia guessed, obviously confused.

“No, actually, it—it goes along with an LA stereotype,” James tried to explain. “That all the girls are young and beautiful, and they want to be underwear models and they don’t eat very much because you have to be thin to be a model.”

“Yes,” Georgia agreed. “I was designed to align with those parameters.”

“No, but don’t you see, that’s why it’s—“

“Only, I’m not really thin enough to be a model,” Georgia went on slowly, “because it was felt you would be more attracted to a curvaceous body type. Is that the problem? Should I be thinner?” She asked this not with desperation but rather determination, which was somehow even scarier.

“G-d, no, please don’t lose weight, you’re gorgeous,” James blurted, before she could magically start melting her figure away. She nodded, accepting the compliment but waiting for the rest of his answer. It was not easy to think with her sky-blue eyes staring into his. “I didn’t really need the stereotypical girl,” he finally admitted. “I’m not really Brad Pitt, you know.”

“Who’s Brad Pitt?” Georgia asked blankly. “Is that a name I should know?”

James felt they were getting off-track. “Look, you’re young and you’re beautiful and you don’t need to eat much,” he conceded, “and you can’t help those things. But don’t try to be an underwear model, if you aren’t really interested. Don’t try to be some ideal thing you think I want. Just—be yourself.” Hollow words when directed at someone who had been _designed_ just for him. But that hadn’t been _his_ idea.

Somewhat to his surprise, Georgia smiled at him slowly, the light in her eyes outshining the sun for him. “I would like to be myself,” she decided.

James did not notice Phil’s eyes flicking between the two of them. “Well—good,” James answered, feeling like his grin was probably terribly goofy compared to hers. “It’s hard to be yourself in this town, because everyone wants you to project a certain image, you have to kind of sell yourself like a product to get work, and then when you get criticized—well, _then_ it’s kind of good to be showing a mask to the world, instead of the real you, so people don’t see how much it hurts—“ James had _no_ idea where _that_ little speech came from, and he was slightly doubtful he’d even said it out loud until Georgia nodded understandingly.

“Coming here was much sought-after, it was very competitive,” she said, slightly breathless, “and the instructors were always looking for any little flaw, any uncertainty—“

“Heavy thoughts on such a nice day,” Phil interrupted. James had forgotten he was even there. He held out the blanket. “Maybe you two would like to sit on the grass. You should sit on this,” he added to Georgia, “because grass compounds can stain your clothes. And don’t wear your shoes in the grass, either.”

James took the blanket, feeling slightly smug that Georgia had shown a little independence, inspired by _him_ , that seemed to rattle Phil slightly. “Thanks, Phil. Don’t mind if we do.” Georgia held onto his arm as she stepped out of her heels and her head lowered considerably.

“I’m five feet, three inches tall,” she informed him, guessing his thoughts. “Is that—“ She stopped herself. “That’s how tall I am,” she finished. That couldn’t be changed, so why ask if it was okay with him.

“That’s a good height,” James told her. He didn’t clear six feet himself; even in the most towering heels she’d never be taller than him. Which was by no means a _requirement_ , but _was_ kind of a perk.

Georgia looped her arm more closely around James’s and looked around the grassy meadow before them. “Where is a good place to sit? Can we sit near that display, so I can observe the ecosystem more closely?”

“Absolutely,” James agreed lightly. “Maybe you could become some kind of biologist, you seem to really like nature…” They left Phil standing on the path alone, looking after them thoughtfully.


End file.
